How do you know when you're getting old?

So, how do we know when we're getting old? I ask that question because I think I'm at a certain age when the answer is obvious! Off course I'm not old!
Am I going grey? Yes (every day I was counting two more grey highlights so I dyed it "darkest brown" though it does look black, so I've decided I'm the cross between a biker chick and a rock chick).
Do I like pottering in the garden? Yes but that doesn't mean I'm old, does it?
Do I wake during the night just to use the toilet? Yes, but that's because I have cocoa before bed!
Am I turning into my mum? Don't be bloody (mum wouldn't use that sort of disgusting language) stupid! I don't care what my (nearly 21 year old) son says, I'm not turning into his grandma, I hope he wets his self now, he should've " tried "before he went out!
Do I go to bed late? No, but that's just because it'd put me out of my routine.
Am I forgetful? Well, sometimes maybe (not all the time as hubby thinks)!
Do I easily get confused? I make mistakes sometimes that's all, most people get Tuesday's and Thursday's mixed up, don't they?
Do I carry emergency pants in my handbag? Doesn't everyone, my mum does so I guess everyone does, don't they?
So, my conclusion after all that is? Erm, maybe a little bit but only a little bit.
Tomorrow I'm going to out and do something rebellious, just to prove to you all that I am not getting old, unless it rains of course, and then I'll wait for another day!
Me old? Huh! (oh blast, my cocoa has gone cold).

Why do we worry so much?

I can lay awake for hours, just worrying. Why? I ask myself do I worry so much? Is it because I was born a worrier, or is it because it runs in the family (please let me blame my mum). For whatever the reason may be, it's the one part of me that I'd like to change (as well as my nail biting habit)(oh, and the way I always get hiccups when I'm eating in a restaurant) (blooming Nora, I wish I'd not started this as the list is endless). Where was I? That's right I was worrying!
Worrying doesn't mean problem solving and it certainly doesn't mean brushing it under the carpet. No, I have to think about it, over and over again. Maybe I think I'll have a lightbulb moment and know exactly what to do to sort out the said predicament. But I just let it, that's right I allow it to consume me until I realise that my eyebrows have nearly met in the middle and my jaw is so tight it's beginning to ache!
Worrying is painful, physically and mentally. It's not nice, and there's nothing to gain from it apart from frown lines (and that's something else to worry about).
But where is it getting me? No where, that's where, apart from the shops for a hair dye because even more grey is shining through!
Worrying isn't getting me anywhere, is it? No it flipping well not! So my new resolution (even though it's not new year)is to stop worrying!
That's right, decision made, no more wring, and do you want to know why? It's because I'm going to trust fate. It's done a good job for me so far. What's going to happen will happen, it doesn't matter how much I worry. So, I'm not going to take responsibility for certain issues, the only thing I can do is leave it to fate. Things always seem to work out fine in the end as I suppose everything happens for a reason!
I'm free, liberated! I'm a worry-free zone! It feels very good as well.
However long it lasts!

Will you hit the bottle?

The Sun Newspaper (UK) has an article today, " Stress really does make your hair turn grey, boffins have confirmed ". Oh my god, I thought. All the illnesses and diseases that have reared their ugly heads (!) and do not doubt countless hours work and obviously it cost money (who paid)to find out that you turn grey with stress!
So how many of us could of told them that and saved them all that money and time.
Good old George Clooney, gorgeous though he is (and he knows it), he's grey! Who cares? Do you or I? Well, I don't really give two hoots what colour hair he's got. I wonder if Georgie (my pet name for him) really cares! I doubt it, I imagine he's over the initial shock of finding the odd stray grey! He's grown older gracefully, (I'll tell you right now, I won't be) shown his maturity and I for one salute him for that! (just a thought-do you think he dyed it grey-no, that's just silly!!) I couldn't imagine The Cloon laying awake at night stressing that he'll have less fans than that Brad (swoon) Pitt guy because of having more grey
Our changing hair colour is something the majority of us have to face. I'm going grey, and I should be proud of each grey strand. I've blooming earnt them! Men, they say, look more distinguished and women, well we can dye it!! (if you ladies want to embrace it then you jolly well can). But me, well, I'm gonna hit the bottle!

Insomnia, what's that all about?

Have a hot bath,(that just makes me sweat)hot milk, cool bedroom, or try reading. Many of the ideas I've given to insomniacs, they must be doing something wrong. It's not natural to have a busy day, go to bed exhausted to suddenly feel wide awake! Just put your head on your memory foam pillow (my advice again), close your eyes and you WILL go to sleep. It's easy for goodness sake, it's all in your head!
Ummm ok ok I was wrong, I'll admit it, I didn't have a clue what I was talking about. I'm big enough to admit I was wrong. Wrong like Mr wrong on national wrong day in Wrongsville! How do I know that? Because I'm an insomniac, yes, my names Michelle and I can't sleep at night! I know, I know, I had all the answers! Well, I thought I did and you know what thought did, (yeah, couldn't sleep because they were too busy thinking).
So I lay awake for hours, I've given up on the useless advice that I thought was pure genius. I now know that just putting your head on your pillow, (whichever type of pillow, cos it doesn't matter)isn't enough!
Insomnia is real, it's tough to live with but you live in hope that you'll just "get over it"
So next time someone tells you that they're having trouble sleeping, just listen to what they have to say, without trying to give advice when you don't really know anything about it.
Hot milk? Shuff it where the sun don't shine!!!

What do you do on a Saturday?

So, what do people do on a Saturday? When I was a young, (I still am) it was shopping in the morning, first into the city, we always went to the same shops (I’m surprised the old men with dirty hair and clothes with a tin of cheap strong lager in there hands didn’t recognise us) at what seemed like exactly the same time each week. I spent most of the morning deciding which can of pop to choose from Littlewoods foodhall , (I always felt like one of those old men if I chose the shandy) it always ended either Vimto or Tizer! I still hate making decisions (I’ve just realised that’s where my loathing of decision making comes from). Next, it was onto the fish and chip shop, we’d take them back to the car where my clever mother had packed a bag of salt, vinegar, sauces and bread & butter. I had to share whatever my mum was having, which I thought at the time was totally unfair but now I realise it would of taken too long for me to decide what to have to eat! Sneaky parents!
After the picnic(well, that’s what I used to call it) it was onto the supermarket, where, if I was a good girl I could choose a comic ( oh my god, more decisions)! What seemed like an eternity ( probably an hour) we finally went home! Hurrah! (I can’t drink anymore of my Tizer though, I wished I’d got Vimto)

Can I still date the husband?

I should be excited,  have butterflies in my tummy,  thinking of nothing else but, ( don’t be silly) its a date with hubby!  We’re going out for a meal and a few drinks (well, it saves me from cooking).  Its time to get ready, so what do I wear?  I dont need to impress, (its only hubby after all) I’ll have a bath first, relax in the bubbles!  Oh no, no bubble bath/shower gel left, never mind, I’ll use washing up liquid   instead!                                                                                                                                         

As I lay in the bath my mind starts to wander and questions come to mind.  Why aren’t I excited?  Why don’t I want to wow him with a killer outfit?  Where has the “woman” in me gone?  Is he not the most important man in my life?  Of course he is, damn it!   ”Right hubby”, you ain’t gonna know whats hit you!

I am now a woman on a mission, relaxing time over, its time to get to work.  “Where’s my razor?”  ” Where’s my tweezers?” “Wheres my nice smelling moisteriser?”   “Where’s my best pants?”  By the time I’m finished he won’t know what hit him.  I don’t want to turn into someone that doesn’t care, thats not who hubs married.  Would I want him to let himself go, and not make an effort for me, of course not. 

This date is as important as our first date (all them years ago) as, lets face it, he is the love of my life!

NB Date a success apart from my irratable bowel syndrome played up and I was in bed (alone) at 10pm.

Why do we holiday?

Why oh why oh why do we spend hundreds, sometimes thousands of pounds/euros/dollars for a holiday? Those 2 weeks away, sometime 1 week or maybe just a sneaky weekend mean such a lot to us. Then the questions start. What will I wear to travel in? Will it be scorching hot when I get off the plane? Which shoes? Jewellrey? Which factor sun protection should I take? How many pair of pants? Dilemma, dilemma, dilemma! Then theres the travel insurance, airport parking ( or do you think someone will give us a lift to the airport)? Oh god, I haven’t got hubby any trunks. I better go shopping!
But first, I better book the holiday, online of course! Where to? “I know, let’s go to the same place as last year, that’s easier”, Book flights, “nearest airport” hubby says “seeing as I’ll be driving” I try to explain if we go to that airport that’s 40 miles further we’ll save £3.59, bargain! But no, he’s arguing now ( he’s the one that likes to save money) so I give in (as usual)!
Destination, sorted. Airport, sorted (I won the argument about having a meal on the plane, ha). “Ok” I say, “I’ll do the preparation shopping” (including embarrassing teeny tiny trunks)!
Yeah! Party time, it’s sorted! “What” I screech “bloody WHAT” “I forgot what!” Oh my god, off to the post office now to change the money from pounds to euros!
Is that it? Am I sure? Not sleeping now, worrying about what I’ll forget! Exhausted, totally exhausted, I’m so exhausted I can’t speak or walk or sleep. I’ve even forgotten my name.
It’s ok though, because tomorrow we’re going on holiday!
Thank goodness, I need one!
“Pardon me? Run that by me again”
“The airlines gone what? BUST? NOOOOO!

Menopausal?

Hot flushes = sweating. Emotional = moody cow. I had all the symptoms, I must be starting “the change of life”. It was a given, I’d of put money on it. Why else would I be perspiring, I looked like I’d dunked my head in a barrel of premium lager. I attempted to put my not particulary thick glossy mane (it’s shortish and fine) in a teeny tiny pony tail to keep my neck cool (husband liked it, a bonus). I spoke to mum (and dad) about it and my annoyingly always right mother advised a trip to my GP. I did as I was told, I couldn’t keep snapping at hubby for using the wrong salad dressing (don’t you men know anything, grrr) or opening the bedroom window a millimetre to wide when I seriously look like my face is melting in front of his eyes. Sexy? Of course not, it’s the damn menopause, what do you expect(*shouting)?
I made the appointment, I opened my heart to my very nice female doctor, she’ll understand, she looked old (about 50). She was probably hot flashing(the technical term) as we spoke and knew one salad dressing from another (*shouting again). “Have a blood test” the fabulous Doc says.
One blood test later, having to put up with a massive bruise where the needle went in (nauseous now), I was back to see the greatest GP that ever lived! “So what’s the verdict Doc, do I need hormone implants or something as equally grown up” I grinned!
“No” it said “you aren’t menopausal”

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Are we ever alone?

The men went to the local pub and I stayed home alone, argh bliss or urgh boring?
I’ve always been lucky, I suppose, as in I’ve not minded my own company. I don’t put pressure on myself to be entertaining, a laugh a minute, the life and soul or even “always happy”. No, if I want to be a miserable, chuntering, nose picking, chocolate devouring smelly person that loves nothing more than procrastinating then I jolly well can. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a people person who likes a laugh, to let my style-less hair down as much as the next person but I’m in my forties now, early forties but definately not in my out-every-night teens or few times a week thirties. No, I’ve made it, after all these years, I’ve arrived.
That’s right, I like me or I would go as far as saying, I love me! Yes! Yes! Yes!
I Love Me!